Conscious
by commonmadness
Summary: He didn't know how it happened or why it was happening. He didn't even know how much time he had. But he was determined to make the best of it.
1. Prologue

_To my best friend Catherine - I know this isn't what you expected but it's what I needed to write. Also, you're absolutely fabulous, you know that?_

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

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><p>It was cold.<p>

It was very, _very_ cold. Also wet, and slightly mushy.

It was dark – or was that because his eyes were closed? He didn't know – and the sound of wind blasting back and forth was loud in his ears. His head felt tender, like it had been hit by a Beater's bat, but there was no pain, just the simple gentleness that a wound can give, and his legs felt like they were made of heavy lead. His entire body ached, but it was a muted sort of pain.

It occurred to him that he was lying on his back, in something soft – mud – and he tried flexing his fingers experimentally. They were unsurprisingly stiff. He got the feeling that he had been laying still for quite some time.

He didn't really remember how he got there, where ever he was. He didn't recall much of anything but the present. He just knew that he had been inflicted with injury on some part of his body and was loathe to discover exactly where.

He could lay there forever, but something told him he had to move now, or he wouldn't have the strength later. Tentatively, he opened his eyes.

He was in a forest, of all places. The trees were tall, ancient looking, surrounding him in a small clearing. It was night, and it had just rained, judging by the thick smell of pine and the layered musk of oak in the air.

He didn't move at first, slowly looking around himself. Then, hesitantly, he sat up.

His back wasn't sore at all, which was encouraging. He had felt a sharp stab of pain in his hip, however, and glanced down to see it bleeding sparingly, the wound peeping out from the rip in his trousers. It was covered in old, crusted blood, though a small but steady stream of it was trickling down to the ground. A quick sniff told him he smelled strongly of iron, earth, and (for reasons unknown to him) sex. His nose wrinkled with distaste.

After a while, he decided he could bear standing up. Upright, he rubbed his eyes and stretched cautiously.

Time to find out where he was.

He began to walk, slowly, because he was trying to recognize landmarks, in a random direction that he thought might be lucky. The forest was deathly quiet. No animals of any sort were heard.

He didn't know how far he continued through the pressing woods, but at some point as he was walking dejectedly in the third hour of his trek, his attention was caught by a small glimmer of light in the distance. He froze.

It flickered weakly, but slowly it grew and then it was shining brightly, unmistakably man-made.

He wondered whether he should reveal himself or not, if the people would mean him harm (but why would he think that?). In the end, as the light approached, he decided to remain hidden.

They were getting nearly close enough to hear conversation, now. There were three of them. They walked warily, occasionally stopping to check over their shoulders. He crouched down behind some tall shrubs close to a pine tree.

They were close...

"...But there isn' much 'uve anythin' they can do now, is there, Pete? Nuffink no more, yeah? Wi' all the Death Eaters an' all his other supporters running 'round as freelances, I reckon old Dumbledores' rid us of anthin' Dark on all the Islands together. What chu think?"

The speaker was young, younger than he was himself, and from the sound of it had a bit of some cockney London in him, as well as some roots in Whales. He seemed eager to speak.

"Well," said the second man, "I don't deny Dumbledore's got the tha Dark Arts population runnin' scared, as well. But that there's the problem, Stan. Them supporters are quiet when they're all afraid of retaliation and such, so they goes underground 'bout all their doings too, and the damn Ministry gave em pureblooded idiots rights 'gainst too many arbitrary _inquiries (_I reckon they _bought_ those rights now). I s'pose we've already done as much as we're allowed wi'out breaking some Ministry law, though it's not as nearly as much as anyone would like."

There was a pensive silence to this statement. The young man who was named Stan then spoke up again:

"What about this business with Sirius Black, yeah? 'Im getting away, right under the Ministry's nose. I s'pose he Apparated out uve 'Ogwart's when them Aurors went to fetch the Dementors, 'e couldn't 'ave shaken off more than five officials, you think?"

"Ar," the third man spoke up, " e' was already weakened from bein' on tha run, if you ask me. _Escaped, _they said. 'Scaped my daugh'er's arse. 'E 'ad 'elp, 'e did."

There was another prolonged silence as this opinion settled in. The third man was definitely the oldest; Stan was obviously the youngest. He wondered what these three were doing out in the middle of a wood.

"Well," said Pete, "to business, I should think."

"Aye."

"Ar."

Pete pulled out something metal (cauldrons?) and Stan make a sound of excitement.

"Those there are _brill_," Stan said happily. "should sell for, eh, I dunno, fifteen Galleons if we've luck?"

"More," Pete said in a hushed voice. "they've silver lining 'round the rims and copper lining on the insides."

It was dark, but even then he could still see Stan's spasm of glee.

_So, it was black market then._ _It would explain the trip into the forest_, he thought, _though I don't see why this lot would need to worry so much, if all they're selling is stuff along the lines of fraud __cauldrons._

"What chu got then, Ernie?"

Some more shuffling was heard, and then Stan gasped.

It was a dagger, and a very impressive one at that. Curved, sharpened, coated in silver with elaborate patterns in the French design, it had engravings on the length.

"Shame 'bout those markings," murmured Pete. "could give you away. I don't reckon tha's any dialect I'm familiar wi', though. Certainly not English."

"Certainly not," said Ernie, "'tis parseltongue."

This time, both Pete and Stan gasped. His eyebrows raised, and he wondered where on earth Ernie might've gotten such a weapon from. Then it occurred to him Ernie might be lying.

Apparently, Pete was thinking the exact same thing as well, because a second later he asked, "Is it legitimate?"

Ernie moved backwards in what he assumed was offense, and Stan looked at Pete so quickly he was surprised Stan didn't get whiplash. "What chu goin' on about? Ernie a right honest man, 'e is, and if he says e's got a smashing piece wi' parseltongue on it, then e's got a smashing piece wi' bloody parseltongue on it, ain't that right Ern?"

"It be right, all right," muttered Ernie. "I figure it could go for two hundred Galleons to Borgin and Burke's. Or perhaps to..."

"To?" questioned Pete. "I thought you was a Dark Arts hater, Ern."

"No Dark for me, thanks," Ernie said quickly. "I thought to maybe sell it to little 'Arry Potter."

Pete laughed loudly at this; but he did not hear it. He had reeled back at the mention of the name in unexpected pain. His heart lurched; his head felt like it was splitting open, and it was fire, pure knives of _fire _in his head, and he yelled in agony...

He was walking across his living room, when the front door blasted down and a figure in black entered his house... he was shouting something to someone upstairs, as he dashed towards the figure, unsure of whatever he was about to do, but it was very important that he do it... the deformed man smiled as he pointed his wand at his face and spoke in a high, cold voice...

the blackness was everywhere... what had happened?

He saw a glimpse of a young woman with red hair and a kind face and his heart stopped beating but his head, his _head_... he stopped thinking about her and the pain disappeared, and he shut down all thoughts of his house and the woman with the kind face looking up at him lovingly, and the front door being slammed down... but the name Harry Potter would not leave his mind.

He was unaware of his screams and of the three men huddled around him in various states of alarm. He didn't hear Stan gasp in shock when he saw his face, and mention something about 'Arry Potter. He didn't feel himself being picked up by Pete and carried away from the woods.

James Potter fought against his memories and slipped back into darkness.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer. <strong>

**Prologue to something bigger. Should it go on?**


	2. Chapter One

_I don't own anything because I'm poor. JK Rowling is not poor. Therefore, JK Rowling owns everything. _

_Now that was a sorry excuse for a syllogism.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

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><p>James Potter opened his eyes once again and, to his delighted relief, found himself in a warm, soft bed, and not on forest ground.<p>

He glanced around the room, looking for familiar objects. There was a small, four-squared window on the right wall, streaming in very weak light, either because it was the low hours of the day or because the glass was extremely dirty, he didn't know. He deduced he was in a rather unkempt house from this window; it was framed by moth-eaten burgundy curtains, with a small desk below it, which had a quill and some ink, along with rolls of parchment, bound and unbound. A candle flickered on the desk. It must've been night-time.

Further along the wall was a coat rack; on the wall to his left, a small table with water in a bowl and a white linen table-cloth. Clothes were strewn across the wooden chair (his) and there was a small lamp on the table. Other then this, the room was fairly plain. He neither recognized any of the belongings nor was able to discover exactly where he was.

He sighed, falling back into his pillow.

He had fainted, he supposed; after he had finished screaming. He had remembered what had happened – remembered how Voldemort had found him and his family, how he had challenged him without any kind of defense, how he had fallen-

Merlin! Lily!

He sat up abruptly in bed, ignoring the pain blossoming in his forehead, eyes widening. What about Lily? What had happened to her? Had she woken up in a forest, wounded, as well? Was she with Harry now? Had they gotten away safely?

Questions plagued his mind. Ernie had mentioned Harry's name – although why he would was absolutely beyond him, seeing as Harry had never seen anyone else besides the Marauders, Lily, himself, and old Batty, along with the occasional appearance of Dumbledore. Lily had pulled lots of strings and told many lies to keep Harry safe from society and, ultimately, Voldemort. It was the oddest thing to say about a one year old, and it dug into James' mind like a splinter, worrying him. Harry had been a secret...

Just how long had he been unconscious on that forest floor? A feeling of uneasiness overcame him, and he rubbed his eyes tiredly. His first course of action was to get out of this room. It was too small for his liking.

He stepped out of bed and began dressing himself. The men had had the hospitality to put some salve and gauze over his wound – it was quite painless now – and had cleaned his clothing of all the mud. He was just tying the knot on his left shoe, when he heard the door open.

It was the man named Pete. He was carrying a tray of food. James heard his stomach grumble as the smell glided over to him, and his mouth watered. He suddenly realized he was quite ravenous.

Pete gazed in shock down at the bed where James was supposed to be resting, and then he found said man on the ground, staring longingly at the tray of food. His eyes widened and his jaw opened incredulously.

"You... you all righ', then?"

James made to open his mouth to speak, but his first attempt was a failure; his throat felt scratchy and sore from lack of use, so he had to swallow and start over.

"Fine," he replied in a hoarse voice. "Hungry."

Pete placed the tray on the small table furthest from the window and pulled the chair out. James sat down and proceeded to eat without a word.

The next few minutes were silent but for the sounds of James eating and drinking hastily. When he had nearly finished, he asked, "Where am I?"

"Aberystwyth. We rode in yesterday wi' the lot from Bristol. 'Ad business further away from town." He fixed a searching gaze on James. "Reckon you 'eard all that, then."

James nodded. "I'm not about to tell the authorities. I think you just saved my life out in that forest, so no need for your concern. I was just wary of showing myself to strangers in the middle of a remote forest. I wasn't at my best, that night..."

Pete nodded as well, looking satisfied with James' answer. "I believe you. You was all banged up when we got you to the local sickhouse... Ernie was suspicious – an' who can deny him bein' so? You show up, all bloodied an' in th' middle of some forest, screaming like you was on fire." Pete leaned over the table. His voice dropped noticeably lower. "An' speakin' of matters of concern, if you don't mind me askin', I'd like to know why you was in such a state a few nights ago."

James slowly placed his fork on his plate. "A few nights ago? How long have I been unconscious?"

"That's the funny thing," Pete said quietly, "we 'ad a.. a doctor in 'ere few nights ago. E's been keepin' you drugged for a while – s'ppose that's why you wasn't waking up – but the drug was s'pposed to wear off tonight. That's why I brought you some dinner." He motioned to the tray with his head. "But he also ran some tests on you to check for mental capacities as well, an' a lot of other things I didn't understand... but even I understood..." Pete paused. "You've been asleep for... for some time, mate."

"How long?"

"'E couldn't say. He wasn't fully prepared for the answer's, if you're askin' test results don't go back further than six months."

_Six months?_

James felt his insides go cold, and he stared at Pete. Pete stared nervously back.

"You're lying," James said flatly.

"Am mos' certainly not. Believe me, when we saw you in th' forest, you looked like someone who'd been unconscious for some time. Like you was in a trance. When we brought you out of th' forest... well..."

"Well?"

"Well..." Pete twitched. "You were in delirium, then. One couldn't understand you, see, what with... what with you jostling an' all. You 'ad a fever, as well. Weak."

James was quiet. Trance-like. A fever. Weak. He didn't know what people were like when they woke up from comas, but he had to admit to himself that a fever, general weakness and lethargy sounded closer to being spot on than not. He felt as if something was stuck in his throat, and suddenly it was hard to swallow, hard to look at the dirty man siting across from him, hard to even breathe. He blinked back sudden wetness in his eyes.

"If you remember anythin', anythin' at all, maybe... well. Now would be a good time as any to say it."

James felt the lump in his throat swell, and his chest felt constricted. Tell this stranger... what? That the last thing he remembered was Voldemort pointing his wand at him, that the last thing he heard Lily say was _'I love you'_ as he heard his wife's weak attempts to barricade herself in Harry's room? That he was so, so scared to find out the truth behind this mess because he didn't know who he would find – or who he _wouldn't_ find? That he didn't know who to trust anymore after - after Wormtail...

"Sirius Black," James blurted. "You – Stan said something last night about a Sirius Black. Something about him being chased."

"Well... yeah," Pete said, eyes narrowing. "If you escape from prison you're likely to be-"

"WHAT?"

Pete flinched. "Don't tell me you don't know 'bout Sirius Black?"

James glared. "Don't fuck with me," he growled, "why the hell would Sirius be in Azkaban in the first place?"

Pete's eyes flashed with something along the lines of offense, but then James thought he saw an inexplicable comprehension appear in them. His disposition became that of someone trying very hard to stay calm.

"So you are a wizard, then," he murmured. "That's lucky, actually..."

"Don't deflect from the question," James growled. "Why the hell would Sirius be in Azkaban?" He stood up from his chair, glaring Pete down, arms crossed over his chest.

"I jus' dragged your half-dead body outta th' forest an' kept you alive the past several days, an' you start talking to me like this?" Pete gestured towards James with his hand. He seemed offended, no matter how hard he was trying to conceal it.

James ran a hand through his hair in frustration and annoyance. He squinted his eyes shut, thinking over all that had just been said (which, in retrospect, wasn't all that much). Even if he had been unconscious, _bleeding_ in a forest for six months – highly unlikely – nothing as colossally bad as Sirius getting sent to Azkaban could've possibly occurred in such a short time period. Firstly, because Sirius wouldn't be caught that easily, James was sure. Secondly; it was a widely known fact that Sirius Black despised anything and everything Dark. It was just too far-fetched and it didn't even make logical _sense_. Anyone with any proper detective training could discover just how vehemently Sirius hated anything that was connected to Dark Arts, he had such a history of complete opposition to it you'd have to be blind not to...

James' heart skipped a beat.

But then... if the crime Sirius was accused of was a capitol offense... surely such background alibis would be overlooked... but not enough to deserve Azkaban... nothing but murder and use of the Unforgivable Curses could get you locked up in that hell-hole...

But what offense could possibly be serious enough _except..._? Serious enough to overlook years of support to Dumbledore's ideologies?

The room had long since been silent and Pete had not interrupted James' thoughts. He simply sat there, on the side of the bed, hands folded calmly in his lap. His lips were pressed together as if he was trying to hold back speaking. He had been watching James the entire time.

James felt the sudden thrill of trepidation trickle down his spine.

"What," James asked quietly, feigning a calm he did not feel, "did he do?"

Pete shifted his weight on the bed, looking uncomfortable. "Look... maybe I shouldn't be th' one to tell you all this. I get th' feeling..."

"What?" James asked warily.

"I get th' feeling you've been... away... longer than six months," Pete finished. "Sorry to say it, but I'm not your man for information. I'm just an old smuggler."

James didn't say anything.

"You got any family, then? Friends?"

"Yes..." James began slowly. "...but that's not who'll have the answers." Inspiration struck, and James seized his cloak, swaying. He squinted his eyes, and then reopened them with a bit of effort. "Where's the nearest Floo Connection? I need to talk with Albus Dumbledore."

"Floo – _Dumbledore_? Wha-"

James strode across the room purposefully when he felt a sharp twinge in his hip. He placed his hand on the wound, feeling the bandages that wrapped it.

"Nasty cut, that," said Pete quickly, as he recovered from James' abrupt actions. "But really – Albus Dumbledore? You don't – you can't just-"

"It's all right, I'm a friend of his." James swung his freshly laundered cloak over his shoulder. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and Dumbledore has always been good with theories and such, seeing as nothing really surprises him... though I daresay I think he'll be surprised to see me. But you haven't told me the closest Floo entrance yet."

"Well – wait!"

The two men stood several strides apart, one looking determined and anxious to move, the other looking wary. James was nearly out the door, cloak over his shoulder, one foot in the hallway; Pete had barely gotten off the bed. There was a fierce expression on the black-haired man's face that made Pete feel (though he wouldn't admit it) like a small child, although James looked marginally younger than himself.

"Yes?"

"I-" Pete hesitated. "I didn't catch your name."

"Oh." James' shoulder's relaxed a bit, his cloak nearly falling to the ground. He grabbed it and flung in over himself, adjusting the brooch. "Guess the formalities were missed in light of... of everything else." He frowned, his thick eyebrows coming down on his hazel eyes. "Sorry 'bout that. It's James, James Potter. And... listen, I know I'm already nearly out your door, and I'm entirely rubbish with goodbyes, but thanks. Without your help, I'd probably – I'd probably be dead... why are you staring at me like that?"

There was a very frozen expression on Pete's face. His hand was clutching his chest, over his heart.

"Downstairs," he muttered. "The nearest Connection is just downstairs. The Floo is in the mug over the mantle piece." He stood up slowly, with an unfathomable look on his face that made James uneasy. "Go have your talk, James Potter."

He stared curiously at Pete for a moment, but then the moment passed; without another word, James left the room.

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><p>Moony couldn't ever recall being in such a sorrier state.<p>

At first, Dumbledore had been encouraging – certain, even – about him getting a new job without much effort. He had completed a year as Hogwarts professor, after all – _and_ with flying colours and much praise from the staff, with the exception of a certain Slytherin Head. With his vast knowledge of Ministry workings and practices, and his newly reformed resume, who wouldn't want to take him on? A letter of referral from Albus Dumbledore went a long way.

_Not long enough,_ Remus thought, slightly bitter.

His clothes were tattered and worn, as they always were, faded and in desperate need of replacing. He was tired and apparently it showed on his face in the wrinkles and greyness of his hair.

Remus Lupin wasn't really a dreamer; he had hopes, as every rejected person did, that one day the prejudices that made his life miserable would eventually fade away and become a thing of the past, like accepted slavery (though a small voice in his mind whispered "House-Elves"). But as for the present, Remus Lupin knew the social order of things weren't going to get better; they were only going to get worse.

How many jobs had he acquired in the muggle world because his presence was openly abhorred in his own? He couldn't recall. He remembered his first few jobs though – working accounting for a pub off some obscure street in London, a simple employee at a bookstore, something bookish or anything loosely related, although he didn't work too hard, seeing as James had been stubbornly handing him money and insisting that he live with Lily and himself. Remus would take the money reluctantly, but living with his best friend and a pregnant woman who's location had to remain secret? Him, a _werewolf_?

Remus had tactfully rejected the offer.

But then, after years, the impossible had happened: Dumbledore had requested his presence at Hogwarts to teach. He had been so ecstatic he had enthusiastically packed and then miserably unpacked because he thought he _must_ be hallucinating; and then repacked because he rediscovered he was officiallyon the board of professors, and taken his meager belongings three weeks in advance to the school. It was wonderful. It was the best year in a while. The children loved him, the professors thought him respectable; and best of all, he got to interact with Harry.

So why was he still here in the muggle world, struggling to make a living?

He had just sat down on the floor of his flat, leaning against the living room wall, his thoughts ambling about from worrying about jobs to worrying about the next full moon to worrying about Harry to worrying about Sirius, when a familiar green light appeared in his chimney. Tired, he slowly stood up and walked over to the Floo Call, kneeling down with a little grunt, staring down into the fire and jumping with surprise.

Dumbledore's face stared back solemnly at Remus.

"Albus?" Lupin began unsteadily.

"I know this is rather abrupt and demanding of me," Dumbledore said, "but I require your presence in my office at Hogwarts. At once."

Remus tensed at the other man's tone. "What's happened? Is it the Ministry? Have they caught Sirius? Or – or is Harry involved?"

"I require your presence in my office. Immediately."

And then Dumbledore's head disappeared from sight.

Remus would always remark about how the next moments of fumbling about his luggage for the remainder of his Floo Powder were always the sharpest of his life, and how the second he stepped out of the chimney at Hogwarts, not even sparing a glance at Dumbledore's office, was the most surreal.

"What's happened?"

Dumbledore himself had just gotten seated from the Floo Call, and looked up at Remus. His eyes were tired as well.

"Every man has his flaws, you agree?"

Remus held his breath and nodded his agreement. Albus Dumbledore, or at least the Dumbledore he knew, constantly spoke in riddles; while others had no patience for it, he had always admired Dumbledore's skill to turn a phrase.

Dumbledore continued. "Yes, but of course you would agree. It is only natural to assume so. Even if... but we shouldn't be speaking of these less important matters... yes..."

Dumbledore gestured to the chair across from himself. "Sit."

It was not a suggestion. Lupin recognized a command when he heard it.

He sat.

"I'm sure you are wondering why I have called you here to my office, at this inconvenient hour of the night. Please excuse my rudeness. I assure you it was not lightly done."

Lupin acknowledged this apology with a mere bow of his head.

"I pride myself on my ability to – ah – plan ahead. It is an uncanny and somewhat useful skill of mine, although not unlike a double-edged sword; it has its positive and its negative effects. Just how useful this ability is, well, only time can tell. But for the present, and in a purely hypothetical universe, let us assume that something all together unexpected has happened and I had not foreseen it. And it is a thing that would create such controversy and bafflement across the Wizarding World that everyone would be in an uproar, and possibly endanger certain people's lives." Dumbledore paused, thinking deeply.

"... Yes?"

"I was wondering what your opinion would be concerning how to react to such a situation."

Lupin froze. So it was advice Dumbledore wanted... Dumbledore had called _him_, had sought _him_ out for his opinion...

The very thought nearly made Remus flush. Fortunately, he restrained himself.

"I could not offer my opinion so readily," Remus said slowly. "... say, for instance, the nature of this thing...?"

"Someone previously thought dead would appear, quite alive, in a forest near Whales, to three wizards smuggling illegal objects."

"Ah," was all Remus could say. Dumbledore smiled vaguely.

"Yes, you see how precarious the situation becomes. Caution, no doubt, must be applied to every move, yet there is something in warning to being overly cautious."

"Of course. But... the person we speak of...to put it bluntly, their background isn't wholly good, in our manner of speaking? Does this person have any past with the Dark Arts?"

"Certainly not."

"Well, then, as of this moment I can't see why this individual's movements have to be so guarded."

"His movements must be guarded," said Dumbledore, "because of his identity."

Lupin said nothing in reply. He wouldn't say it aloud, but his curiosity surrounding this person had been steadily growing since Dumbledore had mentioned him; by this time he was casting around his mind, trying to deduce who the person might be.

Dumbledore seemed to notice his guest thinking deeply, but said nothing. Lupin could see no way out of it. If Dumbledore didn't want him to know, he wouldn't tell him, so he might as well have out with it and ask him.

"Who is he?"

"In a moment, Remus, a moment... first we have a few select other things to discuss before we fully approach that particular topic. Have you spoken with Sirius?"

Remus blinked, almost missing how fast Dumbledore had changed the subject. "Er, no. I haven't had the chance to talk with him... I think he mentioned something about a cargo ship to Africa, when I spoke with him last. It seemed the best place for him to go."

"Indeed. The African Aurors are rather lax on criminal immigrants, seeing as they already have their hands full with several civil wars. The dementors would not dare to approach such a different climate. Sirius could easily escape detainment, as long as he keeps himself out of trouble."

"Too _much_ trouble," Lupin muttered.

Dumbledore smiled lightly. "I trust him to make the right decisions. Also, on a slightly related subject – I trust you've been informed of Harry's well-being?"

"Yes," the younger man answered slowly. "The Dursley's are the same as ever, last I heard, and that was two weeks ago... but what..."

Dumbledore had suddenly looked serious, even grave, and Remus had become silent by staring at him.

"Remus," said Dumbledore heavily, "I don't want to make you anxious."

"You can trust me."

"I know you are trustworthy; that's not what I meant... Remus, earlier this morning, I had a visitor."

"The man who is assumed dead?"

"The very same. He... arrived straight into my office, unaware of the shock it would give me, unaware that he had been dead, completely and totally unaware of the past thirteen years. And he simply stepped smartly over my rug, politely asked for a Firewhiskey and inquired about my health. _Mine_."

Remus snorted. Being raised from the dead, asking for some booze.. it sounded like something Sirius would do.

"Naturally, at my nonplussed expression, he became considerably worried and then we had a... chat. One pointed conversation I am very decently sure that I won't be having again," he muttered as an afterthought, "and now he is asleep up in the dormitories. I have been debating waking him up, but to be fairly honest with you, Remus, I'm not entirely positive I want to rouse him."

"Why is that?"

Dumbledore deflected this question by saying, "I think maybe you should speak with him."

"And is this why you've called me?" Remus wondered aloud, "to talk to this person?"

"Indeed."

"I don't understand it, then," the younger man said, arguably trying not to sound irritated. "Surely you would be the best one to help this man. I'm only-"

"-his friend," interrupted Dumbledore. "You know him better than I do, Remus, and that's saying quite a bit. I think you had better speak with him."

"Who is it?" Remus asked.

"You will find out if you go to him," said Dumbledore levelly. "Try not to shout too much. Don't speak his name if you can help it. And don't talk about Harry just yet. Can you remember this?"

Lupin was close to glaring at Dumbledore, which was extraordinarily out of his character. However, he nodded.

"Excellent," said a satisfied Dumbledore. "The password is _pugnare malum. _You remember the way to Gryffindor's dorms?"

"Yes," said Remus, standing up. "I'll be back shortly, I suppose."

"Oh, I don't think you will," replied Dumbledore cryptically.

Lupin left the headmaster's office hating vagueness and all vocabulary related to the word.

* * *

><p>"Too... damn... hot," wheezed Sirius.<p>

"Well, this _is_ Alexandria," drawled Yarden.

It was nearly 104 degrees in Egypt, as Sirius was found of pointing out constantly. Whenever they were half-way through with their water flasks, one could always expect the British foreigner to ask the whereabouts of a well, and would nearly piss in panic when Yarden would reply "not for another ten miles or so." Then they had reached Alexandria, sprawling, crowded Alexandria, and the strange man seemed to relax a bit and their odds with each other were starting to even out – that is, until the heat spiked.

"Got any water?"

"We are preserving the water, Black. _Preserving_ it. As in 'saving'."

"Preservation is overrated."

"Of course it is," Yarden muttered. "I don't suppose every major country in the world – except maybe America – survives because of preservation?"

"Depends on what you're preserving," replied Sirius cheekily. "Now don't get me wrong, Goldie, I'm all for conserving your resources, but really now – things like water? That's _meant_ to be had, mate."

"Perhaps in the West, but here, water is to be treasured and treated as such, and therefore used sparingly," replied Yarden stiffly. "...And I'm not your mate."

"And forests – I mean, _really_ now. I prefer a good industrial skyline to allergy-inducing pines any day-"

"Mr. Black?"

Sirius shut up suddenly and turned around sharply, Yarden following his lead. There stood behind them a round, fat little man in a cloak and hood, bowing low to the ground. His face was obscured. Sirius was instantly wary.

"Letter for you, Mr. Black."

"How is it you know my name?" demanded Sirius without hesitation.

"There are those who know and those who don't," replied the fat man indifferently. "I was told you are able to differentiate who such people are." He whipped his hand into his cloak, and Sirius wished that he had his wand more than ever; these past months had been a trial without it, to put it lightly. But Sirius noticed Yarden's hand vanished into the pockets of his toga, and knew that his companion was fingering his wand, and felt reassured.

He met Yarden's eyes and the Israeli nodded ever so slightly. Sirius looked back; the fat man had indeed produced a rather handsome letter bearing the Hogwarts crest.

"Oh, bugger," mumbled Sirius under his breath.

"Summons," said the fat man in a bored tone. "Good day."

"Too late," said Yarden.

Sirius grabbed the letter unceremoniously and motioned to his friend to leave. They crossed the crowded street, ignoring the whispers of covered women until they were in a deserted alley.

"I thought you were in hiding," hissed Yarden.

"I am," said Sirius with a bemused look at his company. He started to open the envelop, and took out the letter:

_Padfoot, _

_Something has come up at Hogwarts that I am sure you will be most interested in. I am going to call Remus after I write this letter, so by the time you get this, he will already know what has happened. I apologize for not being able to write anymore; I have most inconveniently run out of ink. _

_D._

Sirius stared at the letter for a bit. Then he stared some more.

"Well?" bit out Yarden. "What's it say?"

"Here," and Sirius threw the letter at him. Yarden read the contents, his eyes skimming over the paper quickly. His lip curled.

"Really? He wants you to return to Britain – because he thinks you'll find something _interesting_?"

"Dumbledore isn't an idiot," said Sirius, a defensive note in his voice. "If he thinks it's interesting to me, it probably is, and the fact that Remus is concerned is interesting enough."

"Why couldn't he just write it on paper?"

"One of two things," Sirius said shrewdly, "Number one: he could simply be retaining information to pique my curiosity."

Yarden made in interesting sound in the back of his throat which sounded like a suppressed snicker. Sirius did not fail to notice the amused glint in his eyes.

"I don't think he'd do that," Sirius admitted. "which leaves us option number two: whatever has happened, he can't risk writing it down on parchment, lest it go into the wrong hands."

"I hope it's the latter. For Christ's sake, what does he think we've been doing? Having a holiday?"

"Personally, I'd prefer it if it was the first option."

Yarden raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I don't want to go back to Scotland or London unless I absolutely have to," replied Sirius dismissively, tucking the letter into his front chest pocket, "It would take more than interest to roam around the Ministry, I'll tell you that."

Yarden heard him hesitate when he said the word 'Ministry' and wondered if he had originally meant to say 'dementors'.

"I agree," he said. "Unless the situation gets really dire, we shouldn't get involved. Best to stay low."

"Hmn," was all Black made in reply, and Yarden knew that Sirius agreed with his sentiments. The thought cheered him up fractionally.

They walked out of the shade into the open street, which was less crowded than it had been mere minutes before.

"Got some water?"

"Yes."

"... You gonna hand that over?"

"Sod off, Black."

Sirius grinned. Yarden really was too much fun.


	3. Chapter Two

_Generic disclaimer ensues. Feedback is love.  
><em>

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

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><p>Remus heard the portrait door shut with a 'click' as he crossed the threshold of the entrance to the cozily furnished Gryffindor Common Room. The light from the outside hall vanished. It was still the early hours of the morning, only seven o'clock or so, and the embers from the fire lit the previous night had nearly disappeared from lack of tending to the flames. The familiar setting seemed unnaturally solemn without all its students running through it in a frenzy to get to their classes.<p>

He passed through the old room filled with teenage memories cautiously, looking out for signs of disturbance only people could make. He noticed that a magazine – _Quidditch Weekly_ – was left folded over, one page earmarked at the corner. Puddlemere United had finished top of the rest of Great Britain for the seventh year in a row. There was a glass of liquid – Rosmerta's Mead, it looked – lying on top of the pages, staining them. This struck a strange chord in Remus, the action being so familiar yet unrecognizable, as if long forgotten; like a kicked-habit or a face without a name. But he moved on.

He placed his right foot on the small staircase that led to the boy's dorms, mercifully empty because of the summer hols, and reached the top.

"Hello?"

No reply.

He tried calling again but the air remained still with silence.

He didn't know where this person was – odds were that he didn't strictly _want_ to be found – and then Remus remembered that he was supposedly sleeping. Cursing his stupidity, he stood about idly for a moment, trying to decide which room to check first. He would probably be in the dorm room he had stayed in whilst he was at Hogwarts – _he wouldn't be in the Gryffindor dormitories if he hadn't been a Gryffindor, _he thought to himself.

Not understanding or caring about the finer details of how it happened, he found himself staring absently at a familiar door. He wanted to go in...

Hesitantly, he grasped the aged door-handle and turned.

The beds were as he remembered them; red hangings, smelling strongly of mahogany, old and handsome. There was a new rug on the floor and the dorm looked lonely without its former occupants, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, but it was still his old home. Memories of Peter's ratty socks on the floor and Sirius barging in after curfew with lipstick smears all over his face brought a small smile to the corners of his lips.

He glanced around the room; there was nothing peculiar about it, just another shared dorm that had seen a lot of adolescent boys come in and out-...

-nothing peculiar, _except_, maybe, that one of the beds looked suspiciously like someone had slept in it not half an hour ago.

James' bed.

Remus felt a jolt akin to an electric shock flow instantly through him.

So.

The mysterious, controversial, enigma of a man had been in the room. Remus felt a bit wary that he hadn't just slept in _any_ room, he'd slept in _their_ room. Surely that was just coincidence...

But...

Hadn't Dumbledore mentioned he had known this person? That they had been friends once? That Lupin knew him better than Dumbledore himself?

Lupin didn't have very many close friends, with his condition. He wasn't very bitter about it, or at least he tried very hard not to be. It was just a fact of his life that he had come to accept. But if it was accepted as _fact_, and this person was supposedly one of his closest friends who just happened to find his way to _their old dorm room..._

... Perhaps he was just being ridiculous. Perhaps he was reading too much into it. He knew the risk of getting his hopes up. God, he knew.

And yet...

He rushed out of the room, determined to find out just who the hell this person was, to settle the matter once and for all – when he smashed his forehead straight into something very hard, and very human.

"_Fuck_," came the gruff groan, "Christ, watch where you're... bloody _wanker_."

And with these words, Remus's heart surged straight down to his feet, taking the bottom of his stomach with him and his sanity.

Clutching his head as he glanced up, his eyes met the other man's – hazel – and stared.

And stared.

"Remus," James Potter said heavily. His voice was low, wavering. "... _Remus_."

Lupin was far beyond the ability to speak.

"... Moony?" James tried again, "All right?"

Remus opened his mouth once, trying to say something, _anything_ in reply – because James was standing _right there_, and if he said something and James said something back, maybe he could convince himself that he wasn't dreaming or – or that someone was playing an awful, _twisted_ trick – but all he could manage was a bit of choking on his on spit.

"Remus," James whispered. "Don't hurt yourself over me."

_But we all already have, _thought Remus before he could stop himself.

And right there, in the middle of the dorm hallway, Lupin collapsed to the ground and started sobbing uncontrollably, James trying his best not to follow suit.

* * *

><p>"It's going to be Bulgaria, you know," said Ron with total seriousness only Quidditch could bring out in him,"who wins the Cup. It's obvious."<p>

"I wouldn't be so quick to say _that_," whispered Hermione. She had sneaked out of her room in the attempt to talk to the boys privately (Fred and George were always arguing with mum lately – Percy was insufferable). "The Irish Shakers -"

"-Chasers," muttered Harry.

"- have excellent coordination and teamwork skills, I really think they'd have a chance to win," she finished, decidedly ignoring Harry's interruption. Harry restrained himself from grinning – although the room was completely dark and it wouldn't have mattered – but only just.

Ron apparently was thinking along the same lines as Harry because then he said, "Since when have _you_ gotten interested in Quidditch?"

"I haven't," Hermione supplied with dignity. "But since your family is taking me to the World Cup, I've decided to do a bit of research -"

"What a surprise-"

"-And get my bearings about this match, and I'm telling you, Bulgaria's a one-man team. Krum is their best player, but the Irish have a better group on the whole."

Ron scoffed in the darkness, and Harry could almost feel Hermione's indignation at not being taken seriously. He thought he would rather sidestep the minefield.

"Well, it's true that Bulgaria's got Krum, and that's a huge advantage to them since the Irish Seeker isn't anything remarkable," said Harry thoughtfully, "but it's also true that the rest of the Bulgarians aren't special either – and the Irish Chasers and Beaters are brilliant, really brilliant. They each probably know their weaknesses and strengths, though, so I wouldn't expect one to take the other out so easily."

Ron hummed his assent and Hermione's silence was pensive. Harry stood up from his sleeping bag on the ground and stumbled over to the window, half-blinded because of the dark. The breeze was cool; fall was almost upon them. Hermione seated herself on Fred's bed across from Harry – she looked worried.

"... Harry?" Hermione said quietly. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," muttered Harry.

"You sure about that, mate?" came Ron's concerned voice from behind him. "You've been a bit quiet lately - well, quieter than usual, least."

"It's – nothing, it's nothing. Just -"

"Sirius?" guessed Hermione.

Harry said nothing in reply, but he knew that they had taken his silence for a 'yes', and it was better than admitting that he missed Sirius out loud.

"When's the last time you talked with him?" asked Ron.

"A few weeks ago," said Harry, almost mournfully. "He's busy trying to stay undercover – I think he went south, to Spain, or maybe even Africa – the bird he sent was tropical, anyway."

"He didn't tell you where he was?"

"No. He couldn't. It makes sense, he can't have the letter fall into wrong hands..."

The silence following this statement seemed sad to Harry for some reason. He decided to break it.

"I sent him a letter a few days ago."

"What did you say?" Asked Hermione curiously. "I thought you were going to limit your letters-"

"Blimey, Hermione, he misses the man."

"Yes, but-"

"My scar hurt the other morning," Harry said quietly. "I thought he should know."

"_Wha_ – your _scar_?" repeated Ron, completely shocked. "But... but that means-"

"You-Know-Who was around you, then," Hermione said weakly.

"No, he wasn't, but that's just the thing," answered Harry, "It's only ever hurt when he's close to me, and I don't understand – I just had a dream-"

"A dream?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Yeah – yeah, about Voldemort," Harry ignored the shudders that ran though his friends, "And Wormtail was there... and his snake, Nagini... This muggle man was watching them as they were talking..."

"What did they say?" asked Ron, face white with fear.

"Lots of things," said Harry after a moments hesitation. "I – I don't really remember too well."

This, of course, was a lie; Harry remembered _quite_ well what Voldemort had told Pettigrew in the dream – after all, that was what had started him awake in a cold sweat. Luckily, Hermione and Ron seemed to take his words for truth.

"Well," said Hermione shakily after a few moments silence, "at least Sirius knows – and you should tell Dumbledore too-"

"Yeah," said Harry, grateful she was changing the subject, "I'll do that."

The silence following was a bit more lengthy, a bit heavier. Harry felt extremely tired all of a sudden, and overwhelmed.

"I'm sure it was nothing," Hermione said, her voice little over a whisper.

"Yeah, it was just a dream." Ron's nonchalance sounded entirely too forced for Harry to believe in it.

"Well," said Harry, getting back into his sleeping bag after one last glance out the window, "I s'ppose Dumbledore'll know something about it, if Sirius doesn't. He might not even answer back - Sirius, I mean. He's busy, wherever he is..."

"He'll write back," said Ron confidently. Harry looked over at him, and saw an absolute knowing in his eyes. "He'll write back, don't you worry. Sirius wouldn't leave you hanging."

Harry stared at Ron a second, then felt an uncomfortably large lump arise in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He nodded feebly. Of course Sirius would write back. He was his godfather, after all.

_He's all I got, _thought Harry sadly, before he drifted off to sleep. _Even if he doesn't know he is. _

* * *

><p>Unbeknownst to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who had by this time fallen into the blissful graces of deep sleep, Arthur Weasley was pacing back in forth repeatedly in his bedroom, worryingly glancing at an opened letter resting harmlessly on the bed desk. It bore a Hogwarts seal.<p>

"Honestly, Arthur, there's no reason to be panicking. It's just Albus, probably something about the tournament-"

"Molly, this _is_ different, and I told you that we'd finished organizing the tournament already. The Ministry wouldn't allow us to conduct it if we hadn't planned it all out a year in advance anyhow, and Dumbledore isn't one to put things off."

"Well... true," allowed Molly. She said nothing else on the subject, but took her night gown off and slid into bed. Arthur continued to pace back and forth, concern apparent on his face.

"Arthur, _really_-"

"I think it's something to do with Harry."

Molly sat upright, eyes widening, suddenly alert. "What makes you say that?"

Arthur didn't answer at first. But what _did_ make him say that? If he was being honest with himself, he had no real argument to back his statement up. There was no illusion to Harry at all in the cryptic letter Dumbledore had sent him; "something that would interest him", indeed... and how very inconvenient it was, when his quill jar had run out of ink.

"Well, if Dumbledore says it'll interest you, I daresay it will," said Molly with a wry smile on her face when he husband failed to answer her question. "Probably muggle wires or one of their mad engines or something of that sort he's picked up. Useless to him, of course."

Arthur paused in his pacing and gave his wife a half-exasperated, half-amused look which changed completely to mirth when he saw his wife's gentle teasing disposition.

"Well, whatever it is, it can wait til morning," he said finally, throwing the letter one last frustrated look before climbing into bed. He yawned hugely. "Damn Dumbledore and his riddles..."

"Arthur!"

Mr. Weasley shrugged.

Just as he was succumbing to sleep, he heard Molly whisper, "But why do you think it's to do with Harry, Arthur?"

"I can't be sure," said Arthur wearily. "But that boy's always in the midst of something, whether he wants to be or not. You mark my words, Molly. One day he'll get fed up with it and discover he doesn't have to follow anyone's orders, and when he does..."

"Interesting times," Molly said quietly, curling in closer around her husband.

"_Interesting_ it certainly one way of putting it," muttered Arthur.

But Mrs. Weasley had already fallen asleep.

* * *

><p>"But you were dead."<p>

James' head shot upwards at the first sentence Remus had uttered in the past half-hour. His friend was staring at him as though if he would vanish any moment on the spot.

"Not dead," mumbled James. "Asleep. Unconscious. Floating through time and space, if you will."

"I don't understand."

James winced. "Neither do I, really. Dumbledore couldn't figure it out, as well, though I s'ppose it'd be a bit of an understatement to say he's intrigued in the whole ordeal. I nearly gave him cardiac-arrest a few hours ago."

"I should've liked to have seen that," say Remus softly.

"Yeah, it was a right laugh." James was watching Remus closely, eyes squinting. "So... are you... you know, all right now? Brain functioning normally, no more hysterical outbursts?"

"I'm far beyond hysterical," said Remus, but he was smiling ever so slightly, and James felt a smidgeon better.

"Well, at least you aren't crying. Haven't seen you lay a load off like that since... blimey, since second year."

"It was an emotional time for me," said Lupin, smiling reminiscently. Then his face became solemn, vulnerable. "James, what happened? _How_ are you... why are you..."

"We don't know," James said in a low voice. "Albus didn't tell me much of anything, only that he'd look into it. I told him all that happened to me... or, at least, what I can remember."

"But _what_ happened?"

James sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I – I woke up in a forest," he said quietly. "I had a wound on my left hip. It was pretty deep, but it wasn't bleeding badly – well, not too badly. I wandered around a bit, ran into some smugglers in a forest in Whales – fainted. They took me to the local sick house, ran some tests, and when I woke up, I Floo'd over to Dumbledore's office."

"That's it?" whispered Remus. "You can't recall anything else?"

A shadow crossed over James' face, and Remus felt like kicking himself.

"Lily," choked James. "She's – is she – dead?"

Lupin could not say it out loud; he felt like a little boy who had been dared to speak a curse word. He nodded.

For a moment, Remus thought James was going to break down and cry. He tried thinking about what he would do when he started; it was such a foreign idea, seeing James weep.

Then again, he hadn't seen much of James at all, these past thirteen years.

But to Lupin's immense surprise, James held back his tears. Which could only mean...

"You knew that she's... that she's dead?"

"I guessed it," said James brusquely. "Dumbledore was obviously skirting around the subject. He wouldn't tell me anything. Some rubbish about not being ready." James sat down on the windowsill, glancing towards the lake. The sun was just beginning to peep out from behind the tall Scottish hills - the morning of a beautiful summer's day. "Like that should matter. Like I would ever be _ready_ to hear about my wife's death."

Remus inwardly winced at James' bitter tone. "Still... there's something in waiting and resting a bi-"

"_No_," said James loudly, "there fucking isn't anything in waiting to hear – _thirteen years_, Remus! Thirteen _fucking_ years. And for what? _What_? To hear Lily's – Lily's..." James let out a strangled sound that made Remus's insides lurch and clench terribly. The pain emanating from James was tangible and for once in his life, Lupin couldn't think of anything plausible to say.

"Lily's dead," James said in a hollow tone, "She's dead, buried in the ground, already gone..." a glazed look appeared in his eyes. "_I_ should be dead."

"_No_," said Remus abruptly. "You're here, against all odds. There's no explanation why you're here, there's no logical _reason_ – _Christ_, James, can't you see?"

"See _what_?"

"People don't just come back from the dead. If you're here then _you're supposed to be here_."

"I couldn't protect them," said James miserably. "I failed as a husband, as a father, as a man – I just... I couldn't save the woman I loved," He choked, "I let that bastard kill my one-year old son. And you say that I'm _supposed to be_ _here, _like they didn't deserve to be alive, standing where I'm standing – like they were – they were..._"_ James glanced back over at Remus. His eyes were red. "Go fuck yourself, Remus."

A part of Remus knew James was just angry and lashing out. But another, larger part of him wilted inside.

"I didn't mean that they didn't deserve to live as much as you did," Remus said, trying to keep his voice steady, "but James... Harry..."

But just the mention Harry seemed like another bad move on his part. James groaned and put his face in his hands.

"Harry," moaned James, "little Harry... he had only started to walk. Did you know that Remus? He would grip the edge of the coffee table and sit himself up and – and move around it. The look on his face when he made it around for the first time..." James raised his face from his hands and finally, there were glistening tears rolling slowly down his face. "He was so close – so close to walk-... walking."

Remus somehow mustered enough grit and took advantage of James' inability to speak.

"James, Harry is alive."

James seemed unable to register Remus's words. "I was his _father_, and it's all my fau-"

"You _are_ his father," said Lupin shortly. "And don't say that because it's not true. None of it's your fault," he said in a lowered voice, "..._and Harry is alive_, James."

James stared at Remus for a long time, for so long that Remus wasn't sure whether or not to break the silence.

"You're sure?" James asked, his voice hoarse.

"Absolutely sure," Lupin said, without missing a beat. "I taught him this past year at Hogwarts."

James faced remained impassive.

"Where is he?"

The question itself seemed harmless enough; but then Lupin remembered Dumbledore's warning.

"I don't think we should get into that just yet," Remus said levelly.

"You mean Dumbledore told you not to tell me," said James with a grim smile.

Remus tried to look apologetic but James did not seem to notice.

"Alright then," muttered James suddenly, "two can play at that game." He stood up from the windowsill.

"What – where are you going?"

"I fancy another chat with Dumbledore," said James darkly. "I suspect I'll be doing most of the talking." He strode across the room faster than Remus was expecting, startling him.

"James," said Remus desperately, "James, please – I didn't mean to upset you, whatever you think. I truly didn't."

James gave a hard gaze towards Remus, as the latter tried not to shrink under his scrutiny. Then James' face softened.

"Yeah," said James sadly. "I know that, Remus."

He glanced around the Common Room, a closed expression on his face. Remus felt a rush of tiredness fall upon him, and wondered how life could have gotten so much more complicated in the last hour.

"Wouldn't have thought things would turn out this way," said James quietly.

"No," Remus admitted. "But how did you think they would?"

"I don't know," James said, sighing. "Not like this."

James started for the portrait door. Remus inexplicably felt as if they couldn't end it like this.

"James-"

"It's good to see you again, Moony."

And James slipped out of the commons, leaving Remus feeling empty and useless.


	4. Chapter Three

**_Disclaimer: All rights reserved to J.K. Rowling, respectively._**

**_.  
><em>**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

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><p><strong>.<strong>

Flipping the editorials, Arthur Weasley spared the front page of the _Prophet_ a glance, and frowned in disdain. His disdain turned to all out disgust, however, once he finished reading the front paragraph. A proud woman wearing ridiculous looking clothing and cherry-red glasses was waving coyly from the front page, a very subtle smirk gracing her pointed face. He slapped the paper down on the breakfast table, a scowl on his face.

"Despicable," he muttered.

"What's despicable?" Fred asked lightly.

"That old cow, Rita Skeeter. I don't know what's happened to journalism nowadays. Everything quote-unquote "_factual"_ belongs in the opinions section, if you ask me. _Ugh_," he groaned, chancing a name on the front page, "and she's written Dumbledore in too, of course. Never fails to criticize, that one..."

"Well, look at it this way, Dad," Charlie said brightly, then, rubbing his chin with his spoon, his expression faltered. "Er... well, I suppose there's actually nothing too positive to mention about the hag. Still, you know that muggle saying."

"'Keep calm and carry on'?"

"Don't let the bastards get you down."

Arthur's mouth turned upwards grudgingly, but the feeling of alleviation was genuine. "I'll keep that in mind."

Fred, George, Charlie and Mr. Weasley sat at the table, munching on breakfast. It was nearly eight o'clock. It was not a usual thing for the twins to be up at such an early hour of the morning, dressed and washed accordingly, but, to the general dread of the entire house, and to make a fair observation, Fred and George _had_ been acting a bit out of character of late. Molly was determined to discover what they were up to (she had a sneaking suspicion they were planning for their daft joke shop). Mr. Weasley had promptly decided that he didn't want to know what they were pulling at as long as the Burrow wasn't blown up when he came home from work.

"Remind me again why you've been called to Hogwarts at this ungodly hour?" asked George.

"Yeah, I was just wondering, myself," put in Charlie.

Mr. Weasley picked the Prophet up from the table. "Dumbledore's asked me to show up, so I'm going to show up. Something business related, probably. Considering..."

"Considering?" Fred queried curiously.

"Never you mind," Arthur said, with an air of disciplined patience.

Just then Mrs. Weasley burst into the kitchen, seething.

"Oh, _where_ is that lazy son of mine? I _told_ him to get up and de-gnome the garden and he's probably snoozing away because he thinks he can get away with it now that Harry's here – Fred, go upstairs and fetch Ron, I don't care how you do it-"

"Excellent," Fred responded cheerfully, "Be back in a mo. Don't leave without saying goodbye, Dad."

And Fred disappeared up the stairs.

"Really, though, what's Dumbledore thinking, calling you up like this?"

Arthur gave a stern look at his two sons.

"I don't know why he's called me to Hogwarts, but he wouldn't if it wasn't serious enough. Now please don't ask me about it again."

Charlie looked resigned; he had probably expected nothing less from his father. But George appeared to be slightly resentful.

_Teenagers_, thought Arthur, tucking into his porridge.

Several minutes later, and with bouncing energy, Fred came down the steps of the stairs, smiling. Molly looked up from the bacon that she was presently frying.

"He'll be around in a moment, Mum, just prettying himself up for human interaction."

"Wonderful," said Mrs. Weasley briskly, as she flipped several pieces of toast over and buttered them. Ginny wandered down the stairs, obviously just having woken up. She took a seat next to Charlie, who smiled indulgently at his little sister.

Arthur drained his coffee cup and made to stand.

"Well, I'll be off then. Drop me an owl if you're called back by Mycroft, Charlie, I would like to have lunch before you go abroad again."

"Sure thing, Dad."

"You get your O.W.L.'s yet, boys?"

Fred and George both shook their heads.

"Well, tell me your results when they arrive. They should be coming today, if I recall correctly. And good morning to you, dear," he shot kindly at Ginny. Ginny yawned and waved in reply.

"Have a good day at work, dear!"

"Bye, Dad!"

"Don't let Dumbledore boss you around!"

"Yeah, and try to nick some of those muggle radios that were tampered with!"

"_Boys_-"

Without wasting a second, Mr. Weasley stepped into the chimney and shouted "Hogwarts!"

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

There was so much that Lupin _didn't_ like about this.

After James had stormed out of the Common Room, Remus had collapsed into the nearest comfy chair and placed his head in his hands, the events of the previous hour replaying like a mantra in his head.

He was happy, yes... but he didn't foresee himself being _stressed_.

Because really, when he examined the entire situation thoroughly, and if he was honest with himself, then that's what this whole ordeal was: a mess. There was happiness, sure, and the joy would come later when the confusion was cleared up, but all of this was just one big work of _chaos_. As much as Remus loved seeing James alive, he couldn't stop the small voice in his head from whispering troublesome thoughts and causing him to doubt at the inexplicable turn of events...

James Potter was alive and breathing, and it would be so much easier to cope and react to this statement if he just knew _how this was possible_. But James had said that even he himself wasn't sure...

_Damn it all_, though Remus suddenly. He stood upright in one fluid motion, forgetting his frailness – the full moon was but a few days past – and headed for Dumbledore's office.

If Remus was feeling confusion, James must be in a far worse state – Lupin picked up his pace, walking briskly – and he hadn't deigned to listen to James at all. He had just tried to smooth things out, per usual, to deflate the tension, but he had forgotten that being around James isn't that simple.

It was never black or white with Prongs; he was too realistic a person for Remus to be gentle with. James was taut energy in bodily form, he was action incarnate. Downplaying this situation probably wasn't the best tactic Remus could've used; James wanted answers, and he would shout and scream if that's what it took to get them – and Remus would always act in character and not respond to any of it because that's who he was. James knew this.

So where would James go to yell?

"_Peanut Puffs_," said Remus quickly, and he dashed up the swirling staircase. He could already hear the strain of James' voice.

"You can't just lock me up in a tower and tell me to wait and to be patient and to do this and that – I can do _whatever_ the bloody hell I please – "

"James," interrupted Dumbledore sharply.

"_No, I will not be quiet!_" James roared, "I shouldn't have to wait for your orders to go out into the world! I'm my own man, I have a son –"

But Dumbledore had stood up.

"Remus, shut the door after yourself, if you please."

Remus did as he was told. The he shot a glance at Jame.

His face was red and he was breathing rather heavily but otherwise he seemed alright; angry, but alright. Dumbledore's eyes had a dangerous light in them that suggested James had very nearly arrived at the older man's breaking point. Lupin, it appeared, had arrived not a moment too soon.

"James, yelling at Dumbledore is not going to help anyone, especially you," murmured Lupin. "I know it's difficult -"

"- You don't know _anything_ -"

"- but you have to stay as calm as possible, for now. Rushing back out into society isn't going to right any wrongs. The Wizarding World would go into a frenzy."

"It's not up to Dumbledore to decide what's best for me," said James loudly, "and the same goes for you. I should be able to go where I please."

"We're not saying that you shouldn't be," interjected Dumbledore again, "but consider the consequences of a dead man – and one such as yourself – walking about in broad daylight. There would be such a race to know the truth, to try and talk to you, the miracle man, when you do not know the truth behind your appearance yourself. And," Dumbledore held up his finger, "you would inevitably become a target for Death Eaters and Voldemort's supporters. I don't think you quite understand what happened that Halloween night, so many years ago."

"Dumbledore's right," said Lupin. James turned to look at him. "Everyone was rejoicing and praising the name of Potter all throughout Britain. It's not just Harry they've pinned Voldemort's demise upon. It's you and Lily as well."

James winced heavily at Lily's name, and Remus regretted his casual mention of Lily. To the rest if the world, Lily Potter had been dead for thirteen years – for James she had died merely a few days ago. "I don't care about a few Death Eaters trying to kill me. All the better for us, them showing their faces, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," mentioned Dumbledore quietly, "but I was not referring to you as their ultimate objective for harm."

There was a silence as this statement sunk in.

"So what you're saying," said James drily, "is that they would capture me - presumably alive – and use me as bait for...?"

"Harry."

Remus had caught on immediately. After all, Harry had tried to save Ron last year without any help, after that whole situation with Sirius – Lupin had witnessed it first-hand. It was completely possible that Harry would do something rash, or at least become highly unreasonable to the point of... Remus didn't know what, if James was captured. This was a risk Lupin was sure Dumbledore was not willing to take.

The silence in the room was tangible, Lupin would swear to it. James had not moved a muscle.

"Of course, they're already a bit wary of challenging Harry after all that he's done these past three years," Dumbledore said cautiously. "But the fact remains that he is still just an impressionable fourteen-year old boy."

"What's he done?" James said swiftly.

"Quite a bit," replied Dumbledore, "but I was hoping he would tell you about that personally."

James facade of indifference faded instantly. Frustration rang in his words. "It's all daft," muttered James. "Harry is – is fourteen. A Fourth year is not going to try and rescue someone if they've been captured by Death Eaters, regardless of who the captive is. He would have to get past all kinds of obscure assortments of Dark Arts. He wouldn't even know where to begin to try to help me."

"You don't know Harry," muttered Remus. It only occurred to him afterward how badly that could've affected James if he had heard him, but by some stroke of blessed luck, the comment went by unnoticed.

"No, I suppose he wouldn't know where to begin," commented Dumbledore, "but I fancy his friend Miss Granger would. And when Harry sets his mind to something, he follows it through. Yielding does not come easily to him, we've noticed."

"This is all very true," added Remus.

James blinked oddly a few times, in rapid succession, and then began to pace back and forth feverishly, creating a steady rhythm against the floorboards. Remus wished he would stop. Occasionally, he would glance up at Dumbledore, or at Remus himself, and open his mouth as if trying to say something, but he would never say it; turning on his heel, he would just resume his pacing. Lupin followed Dumbledore's lead and remained quiet, simply watching James and the pensive look upon his face.

Finally, James stopped and sat back down in the chair across from Dumbledore with a slumped posture of one defeated and Lupin took his thought back - he decided he'd rather have James pacing than looking depressed.

"What would you have me do?" murmured James, dejectedly. "Hide from society? From my friends – from Harry?"

Dumbledore slowly sat down on his chair as well, watching James very carefully.

"I can't keep away from Harry, Albus," said James tiredly when the old man did not reply. "I may be a lot of things, but I'm not strong enough for that. So please try to understand that I do respect your opinions – I truly do – but I can't just... I don't think I'll..." James paused, running a hand through his hair. James had always been good at hiding his emotions, but the young, carefree James-The-Chaser had never felt the need to disguise his thoughts – it always reflected in his face; and it was that same face that spoke now.

"I don't care if you think you know him better than I do, if my life will be in danger, or if I'll have to deal with the media and the all the idiotic purebloods... I won't stay away from him... I don't think I can."

"I wouldn't ask you to refrain from seeing him, James," said Dumbledore, "just that we don't rush into this matter rashly. You couldn't hop off to go see Harry now. Things must be thought through – or arranged discreetly." Dumbledore's eyes warmed. "I could not ask a father to remain away from his son. It is not my place."

"Thank you," James said weakly.

"There is no need," Dumbledore said graciously. He then flicked his wand in the air, and a second chair joined James' beside him. "My dear Lupin, you've been standing up for far too long."

Remus joined James to sit, moving tentatively as he glanced sideways to the slightly reddening man. The latter smiled apologetically towards him.

"That was actually a bit embarrassing."

"You weren't so bad," said Remus slowly. "Unless you haven't finished with the yelling...?"

"I think any further lapses in fair judgment on James' part may be excused for the present," added Dumbledore.

"See," said Remus, "completely within the boundaries of acceptable. Really, James, the only odd thing is that you haven't acted completely outrageous and flung Albus and myself off the North Tower. This is actually new for you."

A ghost of a smile flitted across James' face. "What, being acceptable?"

"Precisely."

A look of sincere apology passed through James eyes. Remus smiled reassuringly.

"It's only for a little while James. We shouldn't jump into this. Relax."

"I know," muttered James quietly. "... I know. I just – it's all really disorienting and just... so _different_."

"But not necessarily bad," Dumbledore said delicately.

"No, definitely not bad, so far as I can see. Of course, you have the best foresight, Albus..."

"Perhaps I do," was all Dumbledore returned. He then opened one of his drawers and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. It looked like a letter. "At the very least I can be of some trifle service. But in terms of a calm assimilation and protection, I cannot assist you as much as I would like."

"Why is that?" asked Remus.

"This."

He handed Remus the parchment; it bore an International Confederation of Wizards Seal. Remus's heart plummeted down to his stomach – he didn't know why Dumbledore would have a letter from them in his desk, but when one received a letter such as this one, Remus thought tiredly, you could always expect complications.

"What is it?" demanded James. He leaned over and glanced at interlacing circles and triangles which was the seal. "... Fuck," cursed James.

"Albus," said Lupin shakily, "why is this letter in your desk?"

"It was sent to me from Mr. Holden of the International Wizengamot of Wizards in the current council. He is Chairman of the Calendar and International Festivities."

"Festivities?" James said incredulously.

"Indeed. There is going to be a competition at Hogwarts this upcoming year. The preparation is extensive and requires a year's advance for framework and details. To be truthful, the event has ravaged me of all my spare time and perhaps a bit more. The Federation is involved as well, and we have almost reached an acceptable agreement for the visiting competitors..."

"Really Albus?" said James, "not that I'm ungrateful, but that's your excuse for being unable to help? Some games for grade students?"

"James," muttered Lupin in a warning fashion. But Dumbledore waved Remus down.

"It's quite all right for you to be upset. I would not have assigned Hogwarts to be the host of the games if I had had some notion of you coming along. But I'm afraid we will have to press what advantages we have and see what we can work from the present situation... which, I'm sorry to say, will not be very satisfactory."

There was a pause in which James bit his lip, toying with the question in mind. "What kind of festivities are you planning, exactly?" asked James.

"You both have heard of the Triwizard Tournament, I presume?"

"Tri – _what?_"

James looked flabbergasted. Remus quickly followed up with, "But weren't those games outlawed, Albus, back in the Fifties...?"

"The ban has been lifted, and the rules have been altered accordingly and in agreement with the Ministry of Magic's standard of student safety. We have been planning this for a while now, a little before last summer; I have made arrangements with BouxBatons and Durmstrang to arrive shortly after first term begins." Dumbledore's expression hardened. "I would not have Karkaroff come here whilst you are present, James. I could say I trust him enough not to make a scene in front of both of our student body, but you are new element in this precarious situation, and I am certain that if he found your identity out, he would report you to his master in no time."

"His master?"

"Lord Voldemort."

There seemed a dead chill in the air that forbid any man present to speak further; the cold fury that had suddenly tainted the room seemed at first nostalgic, and for that reason it bewildered Remus. The strength of the hate was like a paradox; bringing a shiver to the skin, yet producing a wave of heat blasting all directions, shocking to the senses – it was similar to a dormant emotion reawakening, and then Remus remembered that James Potter was in the room.

James was staring at Dumbledore with such intensity that one could assume he was planning to murder the man.

"Voldemort is dead," said Remus.

James' head snapped over to Lupin.

"No," Dumbledore said placidly, "he is not dead – I do not think he is quite alive, but all evidence shows he is not finished. And he is growing in strength."

"You failed to mention that Voldemort had fled from the public eye before, old friend," James said, struggling to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.

"Yes, I did. Once again, James, I think you had best talk with Harry about that particular event."

"You're still as insufferable as ever," mumbled James mutinously, leaning back in his chair.

Dumbledore's eye glinted with what looked suspiciously like amusement.

"After Voldemort disappeared, many Death Eaters were being reigned in to Azkaban – but some turned themselves in with the promise of information. Karkaroff was one of these men."

James' jaw clenched.

"He bought his way out of Azkaban with information – tragic information – and was eventually appointed headmaster of Durmstrang School of Wizardry. He is to be a guest of Hogwarts come this fall."

"So what you're saying is, that if Karkaroff gets wind of my presence, he'll..."

"Try to save his hide by handing the information to Voldemort personally," muttered Remus. "... It's conceivable."

"I'm afraid that is only the first hurdle we will have to overcome," said Dumbledore. "Keeping the secret from Karkaroff can be done easily enough. But this is the first Triwizard Tournament since the Fifties, as you said yourself, Remus. There will be swarms of reporters, from every newspaper, foreign and local, watching the events with a keen, sharp eye. Can you not think of any such reporters who would showcase this piece of news in an unfashionable light?"

"You know I haven't been around since the early eighties, Dumbledore," James shrugged. "I didn't know of any columnists back then who were determined to nit-pick every little unnecessary detail, private or no, of any situation – or at least they were smart enough to keep it out of the papers and behind closed doors... closed Ministry doors, that is..."

"Well times have changed," Dumbledore said a tad flatly. "A detail can be used for or against you in the most radical ways. A good majority of the press stretches the truth to a ghastly length, which, in my humble opinion, is worse than blatant lying. The best deception is often based in truth."

"Rita Skeeter," Remus interrupted suddenly. "I read her article on Ministry Regulation 124 the other day. I couldn't manage to finish the thing."

"Less than pleased with the content?" James asked.

"That's putting it mildly," Remus responded darkly.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore.

"So," James exhaled as he leaned forward in his chair, displaying some restlessness. "We can't let Karkaroff know about my presence, we can't let the media – and ultimately, the general public – become aware of me either; so let me ask you this. Who do you think I should trust?"

"Well, that would mostly be up to you, wouldn't it?" said Remus. Dumbledore just sat staring at James, his brow squinted over his eyes as if he were trying to spot something far, far away from him.

"I assume that you would have Sirius know," said Dumbledore slowly. "But there is a risk in informing him of your current position."

James looked confused. "Wait but – I thought..."

"Yes?"

"... Never mind," sighed James, "we can talk about it later. Yes, Sirius should know. I had thought he'd be lodging with you, Remus, but..."

"Last I checked, he was on his merry way to Africa," replied Remus, smiling a bit. "So no, not with me."

A look of bemusement passed of James."Africa?"

"I will find a way to pass on the information discreetly," assured Dumbledore. "But he may take a while to come around. In the mean time, is there anyone else you would like...?"

"Harry," James said firmly. "... but I don't know who I can trust outside you four."

"I hope you won't be too upset with me, James," said Albus tentatively, "but I took an enormous liberty and may have already summoned someone up to Hogwarts this morning to meet with us."

"I'm not upset," James replied, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "... That's very much like you, now that I think of it. Should've known."

"Yes. It's very horrible of me..."

"No, no," said James, waving his hand back and forth, "it's a non-issue. Do you trust him?"

"He is extremely trustworthy, yes. I trust him."

"That's good enough for me, then," said James, apparently satisfied, relaxing in his chair. "... Christ, but I'm exhausted. What time is it?"

"Nearly eight o'clock," Dumbledore replied with a glance at the magnificent grandfather clock in the corner. "I'll have some breakfast sent up to the office in several moment's time."

"Eight o'clock already," Remus mumbled absent-minded. "I forget how time passes so quickly when one is engaged..."

"Forgive me, but you'll have to last a little longer," Dumbledore announced, standing up. "The very man we have previously discussed should be arriving shortly."

"Oh? Do we know him?"

"You do, Remus," Dumbledore shot a pointed look at the younger man, "I know you must have heard some talk about him from those Ministry officials during last year's fiasco. He's quite unconventional with his views on werewolves and muggleborns, you see."

"Oh," said Remus, thinking hard. "... oh!"

"Yes," said Dumbledore.

"What?" asked James, head whipping to and fro from Lupin to Dumbledore, watching the interaction. "Who is it?"

But the question went unanswered by the other two men; at that moment, a blazing green light appeared in the chimney of Dumbledore's office, and from the vivid emerald came an exasperated looking Arthur Weasley, adjusting his crooked spectacles and wiping the ash off his nose.

**.**

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><p><strong>.<strong>

_Aha, there **is** a plot!  
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_I apologize for any typographical errors made solely on my part. I have not yet found a willing beta. Any takers? :) _

_Reviews are much appreciated. They are my only payment as a writer. _

_- Cate_


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